At First Glance
by RPGgirl514
Summary: Sometimes the people we least expect become the most important ones in the world to us. How Scarlett and George first meet, and what happens next. Pre-movie.
1. Chapter 1

The first time Scarlett saw George, her eyes slid over him like he wasn't even there. She thought he was a student - not one of hers, and there was very little about him that was distinctive at first glance. Later Scarlett would find that the very things about George she originally dismissed as ordinary would be the things she remembered most after leaving him behind in Turkey. Like the dark scruff that shadowed his upper lip, the way the corners of his mouth seemed permanently turned-up, or the peculiar hazel color of his wide-set eyes. But at first glance, Scarlett did not notice these features, and promptly forgot the man they belonged to.

He was a fixture in the quad on mild days - practically in her own backyard; despite her position as archaeology faculty, she was the most junior in the department and as such had been assigned to a tiny, cramped office in the Pearson Building. It was little more than a closet, really, but at least the view was worth it.

Oftentimes, when her fingers cramped and her neck grew stiff from too many hours hunched over her desk, grading papers or reviewing her father's latest research, Scarlett would stretch her legs and wander through campus. It had been home during her undergraduate years, and though she had spent several years away, it had become home once more.

Scarlett woke with a start, her cheek creased by the imprint of the book binding she had fallen asleep on. She glanced at her watch - half past eight. With a groan, she gathered her papers and books together, stuffing them in her bag. It was Friday, so many of the students were out at the pubs, enjoying the beginning of their weekend. Scarlett should have gone home hours ago, but instead she had fallen asleep grading papers. She stepped out into the deserted quad, her face misted with light drizzle, and she pulled her tawny peacoat more tightly around her. It was a short walk to her flat from campus. Thoughts of a hot bath and a glass of red wine quickened her pace.

A muffled clanging from one of the defunct astronomy huts stopped her in her tracks. Scarlett took a few soundless steps toward the nearest one, wondering if she had imagined it, when the rhythmic banging started again. A shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the dreary weather. Vaguely she thought she should call a security officer, but what if she was overreacting? Perhaps the university was renovating the observatories and had contractors working during off-hours so as not to alarm the campus community with the ruckus.

Scarlett reached out a trembling hand just as the door opened with a scream of metal on metal. She gasped and snatched her hand away. It was most certainly _not_ a repairman who stood before her - it was the student who spent every Monday and Thursday afternoon, weather permitting, perched on the bench directly outside Scarlett's office window. He was clearly as stunned to see her as she was to see him.

"Secur-" But Scarlett's shout was abruptly muffled as the young man lunged forward. He clapped a hand over her mouth and wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her backwards into the observatory.

He didn't release her right away. Scarlett could feel his breath tickling her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. Then, slowly, she felt the pressure of his arms lessen, and for a wild moment, she felt disappointed. In the dark the only sound was their frantic breathing, then a soft _tick_ as a match flared in the darkness. A soft glow diffused the small circular hut as the man lit a propane camp lantern at his feet. Scarlett flattened herself against the opposite wall, eyeing the door behind him. She noticed a variety of tools scattered over the floor.

"What the hell is this?" she asked.

He regarded her critically, his eyes a murky green in the lamplight. He rested his hands on his hips. "I'm fixing this telescope," he said matter-of-factly.

"You're American," she realized.

He smirked and rocked back on his heels. "You're very observant."

Scarlett drew herself up to her full height. She would show _him _observant. "You spend every Monday and Thursday afternoon studying in the quad outside my office window."

He didn't look as impressed as she had hoped. "Yup. You're right. I also audited your Intro to Urban Archaeology class last semester."

Scarlett's breath left her in a rush. "What?"

"Not as observant as you thought, I see. It's been a treat as always, Dr. Marlowe, but if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do. I'd appreciate if you would _not_ call security on me." He bent down and picked up an oddly-shaped wrench.

"Wait, wait, wait," Scarlett said. Had he really sat in on her lecture for a full four months without her once noticing him? "Who are you?"

"Think of me as an exchange student."

Scarlett raised her eyebrows. "Are you?"

He laughed. "No."

Scarlett gestured around them. "So you're doing this for credit, then?"

"Nope."

Scarlett was starting to grow more frustrated by the minute - but also incredibly intrigued. "Then why?"

He shrugged. "I like to fix things, and I'm good at it."

"You're mad," Scarlett said.

He smirked. "'And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music,'" he quoted softly.

"Point taken," Scarlett conceded. "But no one's been to repair these for years. What makes you think you can fix them?"

"Watch this," he said with a devious grin. He picked up a can of aerosol lubricant and oiled the hinges, filling the small space with the astringent scent. Then, he flipped open the hatch and pulled back on it. Scarlett gasped. The metal groaned mightily, but gave way and opened to the heavens. The drizzle had cleared; though clouds still obscured the stars, the waxing moon was visible overhead. She didn't notice his genuine smile as he watched her admire his handiwork. He knelt and began gathering up his tools, tossing them into the worn leather messenger bag at his feet.

"This is amazing," Scarlett blurted out, then reddened. "I - I mean - what I meant to say was, you've done good work. The university is lucky to have you."

To her bewilderment, the young man sighed. "Yeah, tell _them_ that," he muttered. He held out his hand and she shook it. His grip was strong and warm and his palm was calloused. "Always a pleasure, Dr. Marlowe." She couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

With that he was gone, leaving her in the open-air observatory, the gaping roof the only evidence he had been there at all.

* * *

When Scarlett returned to work on Monday, she was uncomfortably aware of the notices plastered all around campus, requesting any information regarding the so-called 'vandalism' of the historic astronomy huts in the quadrangle. The notices advised anyone with relevant information to come forward in hopes of identifying and charging those responsible. Though the mysterious American had not been necessarily friendly, nor had he asked her to cover for him, Scarlett still couldn't bring herself to turn him in - not when he had repaired a pair of telescopes that had been out of commission for decades, seemingly out of the goodness of his own heart. She was not about to incriminate him, especially when she didn't even know his name.

Whoever he was, he certainly wasn't concerned with being linked to the astronomy huts, because that afternoon Scarlett happened to glance out her office window to find him seated casually on his usual bench. He had one ankle propped on the opposite knee, a well-read paperback in one hand. As soon as he realized she was looking at him, he broke into a smug grin and waved. _Cheeky bastard._ Scarlett felt her traitorous heart squirm in spite of herself.

It wasn't until she was startled out of a book on Templar lore by a group of noisy art students in the corridor that Scarlett remembered she had a standing appointment to meet her father for lunch. One which she was now ten minutes late for. _Shit. _Scarlett hurried out into the misty grey street, down the block to the delicatessen on the corner.

"I'm sorry, Dad," she said breathlessly, sliding into the seat across from him. "Time got away from me." The elder Dr. Marlowe set down his coffee cup and regarded her with eyes as overcast and grey as the clouds outside.

Scarlett ordered a salad and studied her father. His latest trip to Syria must have been difficult - the lines around his eyes had deepened and his whole body seemed to sag from the shoulders, as if the burden he bore was too great for even his burly frame. It was as if he had been gone ten years rather than just two months.

"How was your trip? It's wonderful to see you," she said brightly. Perhaps he was just tired.

"Long and tiresome," Walter Marlowe said, "but hopefully fruitful. I think I've found the location of the Rose Key, Scarlett."

Scarlett, who had been taking a sip of water, nearly choked. "You found it?" she said, excitement shining in her brown eyes.

He brought out the familiar leather-bound journal he carried with him everywhere and opened it to the end. He was running out of pages - soon he would have to buy a refill pack.

"Not exactly," Walter said, turning the book around so she could see. "I found this passage inscribed on a tablet in the ruins near Damascus."

"What does it say?" Scarlett asked.

Walter shrugged and took a long swig from his coffee cup. Scarlett frowned - sometimes she worried all her father ate these days was toast and coffee.

"It's in Aramaic," he said, and Scarlett groaned. The translator her father had gone to in the past had died in a traffic collision just eight months ago. Saul had been a soft-spoken Lebanese Catholic who had relocated to London as a young man. Many of Scarlett's early memories involved Saul's deep melodic accent as he read or sang to her, her face and fingers sticky with Attar syrup and flakes of filo pastry. His death had hit her hard - Saul had been like a second father to her - but he had been Walter's dearest friend, and her father was still staggered by the grief of Saul's passing.

"I'm sorry," she said, the words heavy with meaning - she hoped he understood she was sorry about Saul, too.

"The world of academia is vast," Walter said. "We'll find a translator yet."

Scarlett smiled and laid her fingers over the looping, delicate script. "Can I borrow this?"

Walter flipped the journal shut and pushed it across the table. "Take the whole thing. You'll get more use out of it now than I will."

Scarlett took the book, running her fingers over the soft leather, eyebrows knitting together as she regarded her father with puzzlement. "Dad . . . are you sure? This is all your work, your research - I couldn't possibly -" She held it out as if to return it, but Walter shook his head.

"I am _giving _it to you, little Red," Walter said, using his childhood pet name for her and tousling her wavy locks. As a child her hair had been as red as her name, but as she grew up it had faded to the fawn color it was now. "I trust you will keep looking for answers, as you always have. I am so proud of you, Scarlett."

Scarlett hugged the book to her chest. "Thank you, Dad." She glanced at the clock over the deli counter. "I've got to go. This was lovely, Dad; truly, it was. We should do this more often."

"Yes," he said, as she tucked the book safely into her jacket. "Yes, we should."

* * *

The mysterious American was still absorbed in his book when she returned from lunch, and she paused right in front of his bench, casting her shadow upon him with her arms folded over her chest.

"Do you know how much trouble you are in?" she hissed. He looked up with languid arrogance, dog-eared the page to keep his place, and laid down his book on the bench beside him.

"None yet," he said. "And I suppose I have you to thank for keeping your mouth shut."

She blurted out the question that had been on her mind all weekend. "Who _are_ you?"

"How do I know you're not just asking so you can turn me in?"

"Maybe I should," she said, clenching her jaw.

"In that case . . ." he said, taking out his phone, "I think I'm gonna go." He put the phone to his ear. "Hello, yes, UCL Security? I'm in the quad and a woman in a tan peacoat is harassing me."

"_What?_" Scarlett exploded.

"Yes, I'll stay on the line."

Scarlett gaped at him. There was _no way_ this _man_ was going to come out ahead on this. She hadn't planned on turning him in, but now he had forced her hand. She folded her arms in front of her chest. She would just tell the officers what was going on, and this whole problem would get sorted out. It wasn't long before two security guards walked across the quad to approach them.

"Miss?" one of them said. "I'm Officer Tate. Would you be so kind as to step over here with me, please?"

She followed him a few steps away. "I'm sorry, Officer; this has all been a misunderstanding," she said. "That man over there is responsible for the vandalism to the astronomy huts, and I was simply trying to get his name."

Officer Tate didn't look convinced. "Do you have any evidence to support your accusations?"

"Well, no -"

"Then I'm afraid there is little we can do other than document your statement. I assure you we are doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this."

"But - can't you escort him off-campus, or something? He's . . . bothersome."

Tate chuckled. "We can't just ask him to leave if he annoys you. Oy, Granger," he called to his partner. "Does the young man have business on-campus?"

Officer Granger lifted a hand, holding a student ID card. Tate turned back to Scarlett. "I'm sorry, but our hands are tied. He has as much a right to be here as you do. Can I get your name, please?"

Scarlett held Tate's gaze with flashing eyes, fuming at the indignity of it all, and stalked away.

* * *

It was half past midnight, yet the glow of Scarlett's laptop still illuminated her office as she scrolled through web pages advertising freelance translators and their services. It had already been two weeks since her father had given her his journal and the Aramaic text, though her search for a reliable translator had been fruitless. Aramaic was, indeed, a dead language.

Scarlett's eyes itched and slid shut before snapping open again. She had a class to teach tomorrow, and she would pay dearly for the chain of sleepless nights she'd been spending on her futile search. In her exhaustion, she almost missed the post in a forum for those looking for translators of dead languages. Scarlett scrolled up and reread it three times before it sunk in.

_I know an Aramaic translator, but he's a bit of a drifter. Last I heard he was in London. _A phone number followed. Scarlett grabbed for her mobile phone and called the number, heedless of the hour. It went to an automated message followed by a beep.

"Hello, my name is Scarlett Marlowe, and I was given your number as a translator of Aramaic. Is there a way we could meet to discuss a translation? Perhaps tomorrow. One o'clock at the pub on Tottenham Court Road and Maple? Please respond." She hung up and let out a breath. At this point it wasn't worth the walk home - it wasn't the first time she had slept in her office. With a nervous flutter in her stomach, Scarlett stretched out on the shabby loveseat by the bookshelves behind her office door and fell asleep.

Mere kilometres away, a mobile phone buzzed on a bedside table. The recipient smiled, typed a quick message, and hit send:

_I'll be there._


	2. Chapter 2

Scarlett was no stranger to the pub on the corner. Lunch rush was in full swing, filling the pub with the malty scent of ale and fried food. The whole place was abuzz with the lively burble of conversation and laughter. It brought Scarlett back to days filled with organic chemistry textbooks and lab hours, and nights spent toasting to how they were going to change the world. As a student she and her friends had come here for burgers, cheap beer, and trivia. She hadn't been inside since her return to campus as faculty, but it looked just the same. On this day, however, Scarlett had a more pressing reason for her visit than reliving her uni days, and that reason was sitting at the bar with his hand wrapped around a pint of Guinness, dressed in an untucked black button-up and faded jeans. Scarlett stopped in her tracks. _The American._

"You've _got_ to be joking."

He looked over at her and grinned. "I hear you're looking for a translator."

"What are you doing here?" she hissed. "Are you following me? I don't take kindly to -"

"_Relax_, Dr. Marlowe," he said. "You texted me. Last night. Remember?"

"There must be some mistake," she said, sliding onto the bar stool beside him, hesitantly, as though he might lash out at any moment.

"No mistake," he said, taking a sip of his beer. Foam clung to his upper lip, and Scarlett tried not to watch as he licked it off.

"I - I suppose we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, then," she said.

"You're only saying that because the only man in London who can read Aramaic is the one you threw under the bus to campus security." He smiled into his beer. "My, how the mighty have fallen."

Scarlett bit her lip. He was right, damn him. "As I recall, _you _were the one who called security in the first place." The bartender came by. "Just tea, thank you."

They sat in silence until Scarlett's tea arrived. Then she said, (and rather contritely, she thought), "Does this mean you won't help me?"

George's voice was quiet and without venom. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Scarlett dared to smile. "Will you tell me your name?"

He smiled back, and she realized that all this time, everything that had passed between them, had been a lark to him. "It's George," he said.

It suited him, she decided. "Well, George, since you are no longer my student, I would like it if you'd call me Scarlett."

"Alright, Scarlett," he said, and she felt a shiver rattle up her spine. Her name sounded so different on his tongue - he drawled the first syllable and fully enunciated the 'r' with his American accent. "So where's this passage you need translated?"

"Right," Scarlett said, pulling out her father's journal. "My father transcribed this passage of Aramaic from a site in Syria. We knew a translator but he - he died. I was fortunate to be put in contact with you. It _is _a dead language, after all. Based on context, this passage should tell us where to look for a particular artifact pertinent to my father's research."

"Sure, I'll take a look at it. No guarantees," said George. He winked. "It is a dead language, after all."

God, she felt like she was back in primary school when he did things like that. "Are you mocking me, my good sir?" she said, exaggerating her proper English accent.

"Not at all, _Dr. Marlowe_." He slipped a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses out of his breast pocket and ran a finger over the neat handwriting. "They're directions, looks like - to a key, or a legend to a map of some kind. Of course, if it's in Aramaic that means it was probably written hundreds, if not _thousands_ of years ago, so the geography's different now . . . This is just fascinating, look -" George pointed. "See these serifs? If they were present on the original inscription, this was written sometime in the late second century AD . . ."

Scarlett couldn't help but smile at the way George's face lit up, absorbed in the letters that might as well be gibberish to her. Her stomach fluttered as George nattered on about the subtle differences between Ancient and Middle Aramaic - he had a thirst for knowledge to match her own, and it was curiously sexy. She suddenly realized he had stopped talking and was now frowning at the words on the page.

"Hmmm . . . it's hard to pick out the exact location, but you'll find it in either eastern Turkey or western Iran. Wait," he said, as Scarlett had reached out to take the book back, and his hand shot out to close over her wrist. "There's something else, see how it's a separate passage from the one above it?" George's brow furrowed. He leaned closer. "It's in English, though, not Aramaic. 'Books have led some to learning and others to madness.' I fear I am the latter."

A chill went down Scarlett's spine. Petrarca's _Canzoniere_ and other poems had been a staple of her father's literature collection - he'd had quite the fascination with work of the Italian Renaissance. Scarlett could recite various passages by heart, a result of having it so often read to her at bedtime as a little girl. She had much preferred Petrarca to Alighieri, though; her father's retelling of _Inferno_ had given eight-year-old Scarlett nightmares for the better part of a year.

George pointed to the words in her father's journal. "Why would he write that? Does that mean anything to you?"

Scarlett said nothing, and George sighed. "What's your father looking for? What are _you _looking for, Scarlett?"

"I'm -" Scarlett hesitated. George was clearly brilliant and well-educated. Others in academia were disdainful of her father's work; would he be the same? "I'm researching the life of Nicholas Flamel and the location of the philosopher's stone," she said, squaring her chin. To hell with what he thought of her - all she needed were his translation skills.

George stared at her for one long moment before he chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. "You're crazy."

Scarlett grimaced and nodded. "I've heard worse." She cleared her throat. "What do I owe you? For translating, of course."

George shrugged and drained his glass. "Cover my beer and we'll call it even," he said, standing up. "A pleasure doing business with you." The bell on the door rattled as he sauntered out.

* * *

_"You've reached Dr. Walter Marlowe. I'm unavailable at the moment but leave your name, mobile number and a brief message and I will return your call presently."_

Scarlett sighed and hung up. She'd already left two messages for her father in the past twenty-four hours; it was no use leaving another. Sometimes he could be the epitome of the absent-minded professor and wouldn't answer his phone for a week, absorbed in some mystery of the past until Scarlett would finally drop by his office to find him staring at an ancient map pinned to the wall, rooted in place until she touched his shoulder and startled him out of his reverie.

Today, however, she had to see a man about an expedition.

And there he was, on his usual bench. Scarlett smiled to herself. It was comforting that no matter what else changed, George seemed as constant as the astronomy huts, or the Wilkins building. She realized she had come to expect his presence on the periphery of her life. Scarlett wasn't sure whether it comforted or unsettled her. He looked up as she approached, glasses perched on his nose.

Scarlett opened her mouth to greet him - or she would have, if another pedestrian hadn't rushed by, knocking the coffee from her hands and sending her sprawling into his lap. She shrieked and looped her hands awkwardly around George's neck to keep them both from falling.

"Sorry," the culprit called over his shoulder as he continued on his way.

"Asshole," George muttered. Then, to Scarlett, "You okay?"

She was suddenly conscious of his hands resting on her hips, steadying her. A flush crept up her neck.

"Fine," she said, untangling herself from him and standing up. "Are you?"

George shrugged and leaned over to pick up the paperback he'd been reading. Scarlett noticed the cover was bent and stained with the remains of her coffee.

"Oh God, I'm terribly sorry," she said. "I can get you a new copy."

"No, no, it's okay," he said, shaking the book out. "You were saying something?"

Scarlett bit her lip and George's eyes went wide and he jumped off the bench, backing a few steps away from her. "Oh, my God," George breathed. "You're actually going to go there and dig up this - this - key or whatever the hell it is?" When she nodded, he rubbed his hands over his face before resting them on his head. "Oh my God," he said again, turning away. He realized that if he were to do this, he was throwing in his lot with a crazy person. But Scarlett was gorgeous and intelligent and the farthest thing from crazy George could think of. Or maybe she was just intriguing enough that he didn't care. Finally he turned back.

"What do you need?" he asked. The question was low and deliberate, and there was an intensity in his eyes that made her giddy.

"Well," she said slowly, "since the passage itself was in Aramaic, there's a good chance the key will need translating too. You know anyone who's up for the job?"

George shrugged nonchalantly, but he was smiling. "I might."

Even as he said it, a muffled ringing issued from his pocket. "Hang on -" He fished the phone from his pocket and groaned at the caller ID before bringing it to his ear. "What the hell do you want?"

Scarlett shifted her weight awkwardly, looking around the quad and trying not to eavesdrop.

". . . Look, we can talk about this when I get home, okay? I have to go." George flipped the phone shut and slung his bag over his shoulder as he stood up to face her. He jerked a thumb vaguely behind him. "Roommate problems," he said with a sheepish grin, "what can you do, right? I'll, uh, see you later?"

George seemed more rattled than he wanted to let on, so Scarlett just said, "Oh . . . alright," and watched him jog across the quad. A rustle of pages captured her attention as she turned to go - George had forgotten his paperback on the bench in his haste. Scarlett picked it up.

_A Tale of Two Cities_, she mused, fingering the dog-eared corners, still warm and damp with her coffee. It was an older edition from an American publisher (if the "New York - Chicago - San Francisco" emblazoned on the cover beneath Dickens' name was any indication), and it had clearly been well-loved over the course of its literary life. The spine had cracked in multiple places, and the glue was beginning to separate from the binding. Scarlett's head snapped up, scanning the quad, but George had already left campus. She made up her mind to return it to him herself. Scarlett hugged the book to her chest and continued up to her office.

She left her coat over the arm of the squashy chair as she sat her desk to grade first-year papers. Scarlett was remarkably focused - by the time she looked at her wristwatch, the sun was just starting to set and her grading was finished. She sat back and stretched. The paperback by her coat and handbag caught her eye. Scarlett stared at it for a long moment before she deliberately turned back to preparing her lectures for the week.

That only lasted about ten minutes before she stood up. She needed to stretch, she thought reasonably. Tomorrow's lecture was already planned; she could finish the rest tomorrow. It was time to go home.

The book on the armchair caught her eye again, and Scarlett went over to flip through it idly. She'd read it before, in school. She'd liked it then. It seemed an odd choice as George's favorite book - which it clearly was, judging by the state of it. She wondered if there was more to him than she thought. She fished her phone out of her purse to send George a text: _I've got your copy of _A Tale of Two Cities._ You can pick it up from my office if you wish._

Scarlett brought the book back to her desk and switched on her desk lamp. She had a few minutes to kill before she headed home for the night. She would just read a little bit before leaving it for George in the pocket on her office door. Before she knew it, she'd read four chapters and it was past ten o'clock.

There was a soft knock at the door. Scarlett looked up, her hair falling over her face. "Come in," she said. At this late hour, she expected a panicky student, desperate to argue their latest failing grade. Instead it was George. She stood up quickly, letting the book fall shut on the desk.

"George!" she said. "I didn't expect you to come over tonight."

He shrugged. "What can I say? That book means a lot to me."

"Or maybe," Scarlett said, "you just wanted an excuse to see me again." He'd put her on before; two could play that game.

George's eyes met hers, and she took a step back at the intensity of his gaze. Her desk pressed against the backs of her thighs. She braced her hands on the edge of the smooth wooden surface and tried to control her racing heart. George could certainly be attractive when he wasn't being infuriating. "Maybe I did."

Scarlett's breath caught, and she wracked her brain for a way to break the awkward silence. "Who is your favorite character, then? The beautiful Lucie Manette? Or perhaps the sinister Madame Defarge?"

George shook his head. "Sydney Carton."

Scarlett laughed. "Really?"

"You don't like him?"

She shook her head. "He's a pathetic drunk!"

"But he gave his life for the woman he loves," George protested. "He gave everything he had for Lucie. Maybe he even loved her more than Charles Darnay did. How can you _not _admire a man like that?"

"Sydney himself thought his life was worthless," Scarlett scoffed. "Giving it up was nothing to him."

George's eyebrow twitched. "Who's yours, then? The _dashing_ Charles Darnay?" And there he went, being infuriating again.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," she said. "Darnay was stable and predictable. He was there for Lucie when Sydney wasn't."

George slowly walked towards her until he was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. Scarlett felt her pulse quicken. And she'd tried so hard to calm her fickle heart.

"You don't think Lucie was selfish?"

"Selfish?" Scarlett managed.

"She was all too willing to exploit Sydney's love for her and let him sacrifice himself as long as her precious Darnay would stay alive."

"Sydney Carton sacrificed himself willingly."

George's lips were by her ear, like he was telling her a secret. "That doesn't make it right, though, does it?"

"George -" she said, embarrassed at how much she wanted him to touch her. She braced her hand on the edge of her desk as she leaned away.

George drew back and smirked as he plucked the well-loved paperback off her desk. Clearly he knew _exactly _what sort of effect he was having on her, and it amused him to no end. "Have a good night, Dr. Marlowe."


	3. Chapter 3

October faded into November with the fall of brilliantly-colored leaves and increased freneticism among the students to measure the passage of time. Scarlett was so caught up grading papers and preparing lectures she barely had time to think about the expedition planned for next summer; indeed, it seemed so far away as to be a dream. With the weather cooling, George's appearances on campus were fewer and farther between, and as busy as she was she hardly spared a thought for what he might be up to.

Scarlett hurried back down the hall to her office - she had gone to consult with another professor in the next building over and gotten caught up in chitchat, spending far more time away from her desk than she had intended. She'd left her door unlocked, and when she entered she didn't notice the guest on her loveseat until he spoke.

"So, how's that expedition coming along?"

Scarlett started and dropped the stack of papers she was holding. George jumped up with a smirk to help her gather them up again. "That well, huh?"

"I'm sorry I haven't contacted you; I've been terribly busy," Scarlett said.

"Well, if you've got a minute, we could hammer out some of the details now," George said, handing over the papers he had picked up.

Scarlett drummed the stack of papers on the desk to straighten them out again. "Alright."

"So what dates work for you?"

Scarlett bit her lip and paged through her schedule, its spiral bound spine open flat on her desk. "I've put in for sabbatical next summer. It shouldn't be a problem; I'm not senior enough to warrant it during the academic year, but the summer is always a bit more flexible. Early June, after term ends?"

"Works for me," George said. "How long were you planning on being gone?"

"Oh, a week at most."

George gaped at her. "You're kidding, right? We don't even know where the Rose Key is, Scarlett! We have _no _idea what we're looking for, or if it's even still there. It's been thousands of years!"

"Two weeks, then," she said firmly. "Two weeks, and if we haven't found it we'll come back to London and try to narrow down the area from here. It's ages away yet, George. We have plenty of time to sort this out before we leave."

George took a deep breath. "Alright. What about contacts, resources, places to stay, all that?" He ticked them off on his fingers. "Let me write this down, hold on . . ." He took a pen off her desk and found a notepad in one of the drawers. Scarlett should be appalled at his audacity, rifling through her desk without asking. But she found she didn't mind. This was her space, but he fit seamlessly into it, like a well-picked piece of furniture or an understated painting, but far more fluid and alive. She wondered if he could fit this well within her life - within her heart.

Scarlett realized she was smiling at George like a lovesick mooncalf, but she couldn't stop. How long had it been since she'd smiled? She'd been so focused on teaching, so stressed . . .

"Scarlett?" He was staring at her, pen poised over the paper. He smiled back uncertainly and put the pen down. "What are you thinking?"

She looked down at her feet. "Nothing," she said, but it did nothing to dull the warmth in her chest. She met his eyes. "I'm just - it's good to see you, George. I - I've missed you."

He stood up and came to stand in front of her. He was so close, so delectably close - she could smell his cologne, something cool and herbal. She closed her eyes and let it fill her up.

"And here I thought you couldn't stand me."

Scarlett's eyes flew open. George was _smirking_, inches away. "I - what?" she stammered.

He chuckled deep in his throat and put his hands on her waist. "If I kiss you, are you gonna call security?"

"Will you bloody well kiss me already?"

George obliged. She moaned against his lips, threading her arms around his neck. He pulled her hips forward, flush against him, and sealed his lips more firmly over hers.

She pressed into him, deepening the kiss. George slid his hands down her hips, boosting her up. Scarlett wrapped her legs around his waist, clinging to him like he was all she needed, like water, like air. The sudden shift of her weight unbalanced them both. Unwilling to let her go, George set her down on the desk, sending her stack of papers flying once more, along with a leather-bound book and a cup of pens that rolled noisily across the floor in all directions. Scarlett had a fleeting hope that none of the other faculty would barge in to check on her before George yanked the tails of her blouse from her slacks and slid his hands across the bare skin of her torso, banishing all such mundane thoughts from her mind. His hands crept upwards, her breathing quickening with anticipation and want, until his fingertips brushed the undersides of her breasts, and she gasped.

Her office phone rang.

George and Scarlett jumped apart like they'd had a bucket of ice water thrown on them. Scarlett, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, caught George's wrists. His hair stuck up in all places and his eyes were slightly unfocused.

The phone rang again, unnaturally loud in the quiet office.

Scarlett spared it a glance before hauling George forward and crashing together once more.

"Do you need to answer that?" he gasped against the hot skin of her neck.

"Ignore it," she said, and George was all too happy to do so.

The phone rang a third time, before a click indicated the machine had picked it up.

The line remained open, white noise an undercurrent as George and Scarlett explored each other, touching, tasting. Then, almost too quietly to be heard, "Scarlett?"

The fear in the timid voice jarred Scarlett out of her lust. She went rigid under George's hands, and after a moment he realized and pulled away - but only just.

"What's up?" he asked, but she just stared at the phone.

"Scarlett, are you there?" The hoarse voice asked again.

George frowned. "Who is that?"

"I - I think it's my father," she said. She untangled herself from George's arms and picked up the receiver. "Hello? Dad?"

But only a dial tone replied. With a worried look she punched in her father's mobile number by heart, then after a moment his office extension. She put down the phone with an expression of dismay.

George watched, a little confused, part of him still back in fog of lust with Scarlett while he tried to wrap his head around what, exactly, was wrong.

"He's not answering," she said, her voice strained.

George shrugged. "Call him back tomorrow?" he suggested. She frowned and didn't respond.

He tucked in his shirt without really thinking about it. The moment had passed, at least for Scarlett, and there was no point in trying to push the issue.

"I, uh, should probably go," he said. "I'll call you."

"Right, of course. I'm really sorry about this," she waved at the phone. "It's only, I'll be pre-occupied until I get this sorted out."

George smiled tightly. "Don't worry about it. I'll see you tomorrow."

Scarlett managed a small smile in return. "Tomorrow."

* * *

The next morning's weather foreshadowed a subtle shift - the first chill that promised short, dark days were coming, cruel and cold. Frost devoured the windows of her flat like jagged teeth, and Scarlett was sure to bundle up before stepping out into the morning.

She couldn't shake the feeling of trepidation looming over her like the grey cloud of impending winter, but all Scarlett had to do was think of George and she felt flushed and giddy all over again. She couldn't wait to see him again, and perhaps today, they could finish what they'd started . . . after she contacted her father, of course, and put her fears to bed.

Scarlett bustled into her office, shedding overclothes and bags and papers all over the loveseat. She set to tidying up her office a bit and blushed as she picked her father's journal up off the floor, recalling the events of last night that put it there. She noticed the light blinking on the answering machine - her father had probably rung her back once she'd gone home. She pressed the play button as she continued her cleaning.

"One new message," the tinny automated voice announced. There was a beep, followed by a somber baritone voice she did not recognize. "This message is for Dr. Scarlett Marlowe. This is Dr. Downing from St. Dymphna's Hospice for Mental Illness. We have important news regarding your father." He rattled off the hospital's number and hung up. Scarlett dove for the phone, dread twisting her stomach.

"Hello? Yes, this is she . . ." She stopped. Finally, she whispered, "How?" Her voice did not sound like her own; it was a cracked and frightened little thing, like a rodent who has seen the owl descending upon it and tasted its own doom. Scarlett's whole body went numb as she replaced the phone on its cradle. She sank into her chair, feeling as though all her bones had turned to mush. This couldn't be happening. This was just a nightmare. Soon she would wake up, head into work and find her father in his office, sorting out some archaic problem the rest of the world had long forgotten. She imagined she could smell the chalk on his fingertips as she hugged him tight, just like when she was a little girl.

Scarlett didn't know how long she sat, stunned, before a colleague knocked on her door. "Scarlett, what's gotten into you? Your 9 A.M. class is waiting in the lecture hall; they're wondering where you've - Scarlett?"

The other professor broke off. Her name was Amy . . . Yes, that's right. Dr. Amy Price. She was an adjunct professor whose office was only a few doors down from her father's. They'd gone out for drinks before, though they weren't particularly close. Scarlett couldn't say the news out loud yet, particularly to someone she hardly knew.

"My father," she said, then stopped. Some wild desperate part of her reasoned that if she did not say it out loud, it was not true.

Amy frowned in confusion. "You want me to fetch your father? Scarlett, he's been on a leave of absence for two months. He didn't tell you?"

"What? No, that can't be right."

"It was all rather sudden. When he returned from Iran he just wasn't himself. He turned in his paperwork to the dean in September. I can't believe you didn't know."

_Indeed, _Scarlett wondered. How could she not have known? He was her _father_.

"He's dead," she blurted out, as if saying it quickly would make it less painful, like ripping off a plaster.

Amy's face fell. "Oh, that's awful. I'm so sorry." She thought quickly. "I'll tell your class a family emergency has come up. Don't worry."

"Thank you," Scarlett said distantly. She stood up in a daze, putting one foot in front of the other, her feet carrying her across campus without a conscious thought until she was standing before a familiar door. She barely noticed the note on the door, announcing the office's occupant on indeterminate leave, and used her key to open the door. It smelled the same: chalk, leather, the comforting musty scent of old paper. Scarlett sat in her father's chair and pulled her knees up to her chest.

"Why, Dad?" she asked the room at large, her voice a cracked whisper. It was all she could manage. _Why did you kill yourself? _But it was no harder a question than those she asked herself: _Why didn't I pick up the phone? Would it have made a difference? Could I have saved you?_

It was easier to ask a ghost.

* * *

The funeral was a blur. Later Scarlett would look back on the week following her father's death and wonder how she got everything done. The hospital staff took care of some of the details, and Scarlett was grateful for it. She'd brought home a box of his personal effects, what little he had brought to the hospital with him, but she hadn't yet brought herself to rummage through them. Instead, she brought it to work with her, cleaning out his office at the request of the dean, and piled the objects that had defined his life's work on top.

Scarlett returned to teaching a week later. In some ways, it was almost harder to bear the stares and hushed whispers of her students (many of whom had taken her father's courses in previous terms) than it had been that first raw day after Walter's death.

She had never really been one for socializing, but now she spent even more time holed up in her office, and at the end of the day she was so paralyzed by grief she often just slept on her loveseat rather than face the lonely silence of her flat. She found herself staring out the window at the hazy quad, recalling happier times.

The leather-bound journal on her desk drew her eyes inexorably towards it, but Scarlett still couldn't bring herself to open it. She sighed and rubbed her eyes, itching with tiredness. When she was awake, all she wanted to do was curl up under her duvet and sleep until the hollow ache under her ribs subsided. Yet when she laid down to sleep, she simply couldn't, lying awake torturing herself with _what-ifs_.

She deliberately pushed back from her desk, taking a calming breath that did nothing to soothe her, when she heard her office door creak open. She stood up and hurriedly swiped her hands over her face to make sure no tears had escaped - it wouldn't do for her students to see her like this. But it wasn't a student who hovered by the door.

"George," she said, letting out her breath. She didn't know what else to say to him, but she didn't need to. She could tell by the look on his face that he had heard the news. He crossed the office in three strides and held her as she broke.

"I'm here," he said, rubbing her back, "I'm here."

When Scarlett had cried herself out, she felt withered and used up. Fatigue weighed upon her like a wet woolen blanket. She felt George's hands, gentle on her shoulders and the small of her back, leading her to her office chair. He sat on her desk across from her, their fingers threaded.

"Sorry," Scarlett said, her voice cracking. She gave a little laugh, self-conscious of her blotchy face and puffy eyes. "I'm a bit of a mess right now. You don't deserve this. I'm not - I'm not your problem."

George untangled his fingers from hers and rubbed a hand over his face. He took a deep breath and rested both hands on his knees. "Let me tell you about Danny."

The air in the room stilled. Scarlett hardly dared speak - even a whisper seemed too loud. "Who . . . who's Danny?"

"He was my brother," George said. He told her how they had been on a family vacation in a cave in Kentucky and how he and Danny had pretended they were Indiana Jones. How Danny's leg had gotten pinned when a heap of loose rock shifted. How George had gone to get help and lost his way . . .

George's voice caught on the words. He swallowed hard. "So believe me when I say I have an idea what you're feeling right now."

He smiled faintly, his eyes fixed on a point near the corner of her desk. "I was his big brother. He thought I was the strongest guy on Earth." George spread his hands and shrugged. "I wasn't." They were both quiet for a long time.

"It doesn't get better, does it?" Scarlett said finally.

"Not really," George said. "But at least it doesn't get worse. Come on. Let me walk you home."

* * *

She wasn't even sure, after everything, if that kiss in her office was a one-off or if George even still wanted to accompany her on the expedition to Turkey. Scarlett was such a bloody mess, she didn't want anything to do with herself. She could only imagine what George thought of her. Scarlett knew it was a bad idea to want George - he was a business partner - but want him she did. But these feelings, riding so fresh on the heels of the guilt and grief of her father's suicide, she was too confused to sort out whether this was what she truly wanted, or if she just wanted to feel anything at all.

"Well, this is me," she said as they reached the door. She took out her keys with shaking hands.

George looked down, shuffling his feet. "Wishing you a good night doesn't really apply here, does it?" It was a rhetorical question and they both knew it. He cocked his head to one side and met her eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Scarlett nodded. He turned to go, and before she knew what she was doing her hand shot out to catch his. "Wait," she said desperately, and hated herself for it. "Stay."

"Scarlett, I don't know if that's a good -" She cut him off by dragging him forward by the lapels of his jacket. This kiss was far rougher than the one in her office, though no less passionate. They broke free, gasping. Her fingers were still bunched in the fabric of his coat. George gently took her shoulders and pushed her away, but he didn't let go.

"Scarlett -" he said with a grimace. "The last thing I want is to take advantage of you."

"No," she said breathlessly. "You couldn't. Please, George, I - I can't bear to be alone tonight."

He dropped his hands to his sides and sighed. "God, this is a _terrible _idea."

She shrugged. "I trust you."

George stared at her for a minute. Finally, he took her hand. "Okay."


End file.
